"It wasn't fire—that is, not much of it," was the answer. "It was mostly smoke. We have a moving picture company on board, and they had a lot of fireworks, some of 'em tied up in old sail cloth. The fireworks started to go off—why I don't know—and they set fire to the cloth, and when we wet that down it made an awful smoke. But all the stuff was in a zinc-lined compartment, so there wasn't much real danger. The worst was when those rockets went off and shot up right out of the hatchway."
"And are you sure the fire is entirely out?" asked the mate of Mr. Lawrence's vessel.
"Just about. We'll have the men make a search, so that there won't be any further danger."
After a little more conversation the three rowboats were brought close to the steam yacht, from the side of which a ladder had been lowered.
"O dear! Are we to go back to that boat?" queried the girl Dave had saved from drowning.
She was a miss of perhaps eighteen years, tall and slender, with brown hair and big brown eyes. She appealed to our hero as she spoke.
"I don't see what else there is to do," he answered, "unless you want to be taken to our steamer."
"What place is your steamer bound for?"
"We hope to make Portland some time this afternoon."
"Oh indeed! Then I think I would rather go aboard that steamer than back on the yacht," answered the young lady. "What do you think, Aunt Bess?" she went on, appealing to the woman in the rowboat, who by this time had recovered from her plunge into the sea.